This is a little piece in honor of the release of the sixth installment of the Harry Potter movies. It has finally arrived, I love it, and I am elated. And so I write.
Set during HBP.
Drawn
Draco was tired. So damn tired.
He drew the bed curtains across the rods and by doing so set himself apart from the world that had grown to mean nothing to him. Nothing… and then everything. He leaned back against his pillow and glanced at his watch. Three fifty-two a.m.
He hated what was becoming of him. He was a shell. He was empty. His blonde hair hung limply over his pallid and gaunt face. Tonight, he had not been successful.
The words of the Dark Lord echoed sinisterly through his head, pounding against his skull. He hadn't much longer. His world as he knew it, for all he knew, may have been coming to an end. He was weak. Spineless. A creature too low, even, to serve under the likes of Pettigrew.
Draco lay on top of his bed covers, the mark on his arm burning as it always did, and shivered. He felt the vial snake Nagini slither in and out of his legs. He even sat up, quickly checking to make sure he was alone. His paranoia was growing worse as well.
He wished he could curse. He wished he could run away. He even, for a second, wished he could just be Potter. Potter! His mind spat. How he loathed him… How he envied him. To feel the ease of friendship… of comfort… of hope… He hated him for sucking up all of that hope; it was almost as if he had sucked it straight out of Draco's own soul. All he had left was brittle bone and tears.
The damn tears. Draco couldn't remember the last time he had cried before this year. Now, though, he seemed to feel those tears almost every night. They stole his breath, made him quake with fear. It was weak.
So weak.
Bottled Up
Hermione lay in an entirely different place. The fire was dimming to a pile of amber coals and with its departure came the cold draft. She hadn't a blanket, so she curled up tighter in on herself. The common room couch seemed to engulf her, its billowy depth sinking to mold to her shape. She buried her head deeper in the cushion and stared into the fire. It glared back, accusing.
It condemned her. It called her capricious and lost. It bored into her heart and left a gaping hole. It coldly played a slideshow of Ron and Lavender kissing, laughing, holding. At the sight of Ron's happiness, she squeezed her eyes shut. She couldn't bear it.
When had it started? The logical half of her was steadfast at work, calculating the exact moment she had fallen for him. She attempted to shrug that half off and tried to relax into sleep. Test. Wasn't there a Potions test the very next morning? Her mind leapt into action again, cogs turning, reviewing the ingredients for the Draught of Life. She tried to concentrate… Tried…
Ron.
She groaned inwardly, and turned to face the inside of the couch. Why couldn't she burry herself there in the crevice where the cushions met? Her heart stung and weighed heavily against her ribs. Nestling her nose in the warmest wrinkle, she finally let a tear roll down it, to meet the fabric that waited there at the bridge.
She cried.
Ron.
Lost
Harry felt out of place in his dormitory room. He looked around at his mates, each asleep in their beds.
Hogwarts had always been a place of refuge for him. He still liked to think of it fondly, but his heart was telling him that this wasn't where he was supposed to be.
The world was massive. So massive. And the Horcruxes so small. He felt out of place, so he tried to picture himself at the Burrow. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley smiled down at him in a mental picture. No, no, no. He would have to distance himself from everyone. Voldemort was stronger and more vicious than ever.
His love for his family would have to hold its own and last until this was all over. One way or another, it was all he had.
Ginny.
A lump formed in his throat. Dread crept through his veins and suffused into his fingers and toes. He couldn't think about it. The loss… He would lose her.
He had to.
Ron and Hermione.
His two best friends. His best friends. The lump thickened. His scar pricked. He clutched the covers between his fingers, channeling his sorrow into the limp, lifeless cloth.
He couldn't see his answer. There was no help. Not a guide line to be found.
A sob racked his chest.
Chords
Luna sat, legs folded into each other, with a muggle instrument in her hands. A geetar, her father had called it. She ran her fingers aimlessly across the strings, pressing hard on the neck and experimenting with the different sounds.
A window stood in the wall opposite her, reflecting her image. Her light hair streamed over her shoulders and nestled on her thighs. Her eyes were dreamy as always. She smiled at herself and watched as herself smiled back.
She picked a few strings, and the tops dug into her fingertips. She pressed down harder, so that the strings cut.
She bit her lip and continued to strum, listening to the beautiful sounds that followed. Her mind ran across her friends. Ginny, Harry, Neville, Hermione, and Ron. She smiled as she thought of the Thestrals, the Department of Mysteries, Slughorn's party. She thought of her room and the fresh paintings she had left there last summer.
The music tinkled from the instrument directly into her ears, as if the melody was meant for her alone.
Maybe it was.
Wrong
This was wrong. All wrong.
Ron lay with his eyes closed in his bed, thinking of Hermione. He hadn't been able to think of much else.
Hermione… Mione…
Inspite himself, he smiled at his pet name. He imagined her smile. Her laugh.
Stupid Lavender.
He had been so confused. But now, he was sure. Dead sure.
His mind had been traveling, nonstop, twenty-four hours a day, around one singular person. Hermione. He reckoned he'd always sort of known. Wished he'd realized it sooner. Guessed he was too late.
Too late. Was he too late?
His thoughts circled back to her. Her face. Her hair. Her stupid teeth. Why did she have to have such stupid, perfect teeth? Why did she have to smell so good?
Why did he have to fall in love with her?